‘How strange! Let’s move on to Mr Burns,’ suggested Madeleine. ‘I do apologise if this is embarrassing for you.’
‘Years have passed since then. I’m a different person now.’
‘Your friend gave my husband a very clear account of … what had happened between you and him. There was even talk of an elopement, I believe.’
‘You snatch at anything to be with the person you love, Mrs Colbeck. We were talking about it the night we were seen together.’ Her face showed anger for the first time. ‘That put a stop to all our plans.’
‘Yet you tried to get in touch on your return from Italy.’
‘I tried and failed — so did Gerard.’
‘Do you know why, Miss Quayle?’
‘They kept him away from me.’
‘There was rather more to it than that,’ explained Madeleine. ‘This is what I meant when I said I might have to pass on something distasteful. Your father paid two ruffians to assault Mr Burns and they warned him that, if he dared to get anywhere near you again, he’d suffer even more injury.’
‘I can guess the nature of that injury,’ said Lydia, quietly, ‘because my father made the same threat to me. I was not as familiar with the ways of the world then so you can imagine the profound shock that it gave me. I was horrified.’
‘What did your father threaten to do?’
‘He said that if I made any attempt to get in touch with Gerard again …’ She broke off and wiped away a tear that had just trickled out of her eye. ‘It was the way that Father said it that turned my stomach. Keep well away from him, I was told, or the man I’d loved would be castrated.’
Philip Conway had returned to the offices of the Derby Mercury to discover that the editor was not there. Expecting a reprimand for not bringing back from Spondon the latest news about the murder investigation, Conway was heartily relieved. He was able to write an article on an unrelated subject. Instead of vanishing altogether, however, the chastisement had only been postponed. When the editor finally turned up, he summoned the reporter to his office and asked for details of the latest developments. Unable to provide them, Conway was given a verbal roasting and sent off to the Royal Hotel to speak to the man in charge of the case.
The Railway Detective was in the lounge, talking to Superintendent Wigg. From the gestures made by the latter, Conway deduced that an argument was taking place. He lurked nearby until Wigg’s temper had cooled then drifted across to them. The superintendent’s manner changed at once. He always made an effort to cultivate the press even if only dealing with a young reporter.
‘Ah, come on over,’ he invited, beckoning with a finger. ‘This is Philip Conway from the Mercury, Inspector, but I daresay that you’ve met.’
‘As a matter of fact, we haven’t,’ said Colbeck, ‘but Sergeant Leeming has mentioned him favourably to me. How do you do, Mr Conway?’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Inspector. The sergeant worships you.’
‘I certainly don’t,’ said Wigg under his breath. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way, Inspector, but do bear in mind what I said.’
Colbeck rose from his chair in tandem with Wigg and they exchanged a farewell handshake. The superintendent beamed at the reporter.
‘Do give my regards to the editor,’ he said.
Conway gave a dutiful nod and stood aside so that Wigg could leave. After sizing the newcomer up, Colbeck waved him to a chair, asked if he would like a drink then summoned a waiter to place an order for two glasses of whisky. The reporter was clearly delighted to be in his presence.
‘I didn’t realise that the sergeant had returned to London,’ he said.
‘It’s only a temporary return.’
‘Is he there in relation to the investigation?’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck in a tone that announced he would give no details. ‘I’ve read your articles in the Derby Mercury. They’ve been reassuringly accurate.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘The sergeant will have told you how often we get traduced or misrepresented in the London press. They always expect us to solve a crime instantly, whereas it may take weeks, if not months. Look at the other murder in Spondon.’
‘I meant to tell you about that, Inspector.’
‘They present a curious contrast, don’t they?’ observed Colbeck. ‘On the one side, we have Mr Quayle, a native of Nottingham without any discernible link to the village, being found dead in its church. On the other, we have a local man robbed and killed on a road leading out of it. Compare the nature of their deaths. The wealthy industrialist is dispatched with poison while the framework knitter was battered to the ground. Which of the crimes is easier to solve?’
‘Neither has been solved yet.’
‘The latest one will be.’
‘What about the earlier one?’
‘That should have been solved three years ago. The sheer brutality of the attack tells us something about the character of the attacker. The facts would suggest to me that he’s a local man, aware of the route home that Enoch Stone would take after a night drinking in a public house.’
‘Most people believe it may have been a traveller, seizing his opportunity.’
‘Were any strangers seen in the village that day?’
‘Not as far as I know, Inspector.’
‘Then I’d plump for someone in Spondon. I took the trouble to find out the wage earned by a framework knitter and it’s not a large one. The killer didn’t get away with a lot of money so perhaps robbery was not the motive, after all. It was made to look as if it was. What prompted the murder might have been something else entirely.’
‘I agree,’ said the reporter.
‘Now in the case of Mr Quayle,’ said Colbeck, ‘there was a sizeable amount of money in his wallet and he had an expensive pocket watch. Neither was stolen. How do you explain that?’
‘I don’t but, then, I’m not a detective.’
‘Don’t be modest. You ferret out stories so you’re in an allied trade.’
The waiter arrived with the whisky on a tray. He set a glass down in front of each of them then withdrew. Colbeck sampled his drink before speaking.
‘You said earlier that you meant to talk to me about Enoch Stone.’
‘Sergeant Leeming may already have mentioned this.’
‘No, he hasn’t said anything to me about it.’
Conway took a hasty sip of his whisky and had a minor coughing fit. When he’d recovered, he described his visit to Spondon that day and his encounter in the churchyard with Jed Hockaday. He quoted the vicar then recalled Leeming’s assessment of the cobbler. After listening carefully, Colbeck said that he would make a point of speaking to the man himself. Hockaday’s behaviour was too peculiar to be ignored and it called his status as a constable into doubt.
‘I’ll pass on your comments to Sergeant Leeming.’
‘Is he on his way back here this evening?’
‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘he’ll spend the night at home then catch an early train. Before then, he may find a surprise awaiting him at Scotland Yard.’
After what he saw as his earlier triumph over the superintendent, Victor Leeming entered the office without the usual tremors. Indeed, there was a spring in his step and a radiant smile igniting his features. He and Madeleine had succeeded in their task. Lydia Quayle had been located and a fund of information about her family had been elicited from her. The person who’d drawn it out, of course, was Madeleine but there would be no mention of her part in the visit. Congratulations were in order and Leeming was ready to enjoy them.
‘Good evening, Superintendent,’ he said, airily.
‘What kept you?’ snarled the other.
‘I had to follow a twisting trail, sir.’
‘You’ve been away for hours.’
‘But I did what the inspector asked me to do,’ Leeming contended. ‘By dint of careful research, I found out the address where Miss Quayle is living.’